‘I and God don’t enjoy each other’s company.’ He was not in a mood of filling his writhen stomach with some grown-up drivel. I couldn’t catch a good look of his ears. Does he have a pair as big and flappy as the mutant God? I wonder. He who creates earns the right to crush. I sniggered and yawned at the dream; a dream that never belonged to me, the dream where the cadaverous rodent snips the loincloth of its heartless master to distract him temporarily from riding its furry back.
The kid swiftly moves on to greener pastures, oblivious of the fact that it only costs a couple of bucks to buy a can of spray paint. Even in his shrinking shorts, he assumes an air of a seasoned salesman. An aufait, one might say- a congenial fellow who hands over a futuristic machine to a patron with a missing hinge and a torn manual.